


Five Times Fred was Early for the Express (and the One Time He Wasn't)

by PurpleHydrangeas



Series: Fred/Hermione Stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Awkwardness, Awesome Dr. Granger, Awkward Flirting, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hogwarts Express, Maternal Awesomeness, POV Outsider, Subtextual Angst, Teenage Flirting, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleHydrangeas/pseuds/PurpleHydrangeas
Summary: AU 5+1 told through the eyes of Miranda Granger as she watches Hermione leave for school on the Express each year. She sees a few other things, too. She's nothing if not observant. After all, all those books and all that cleverness had to come from somewhere, didn't they?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Titled: An Ode to a Bench on Platform 9 3/4. 
> 
> Probably pretty AU by the virtue of the pairing. And time is, well, "from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff." I'm just rolling with this one, because I liked Miranda. 
> 
> Fluff I've had on my old hard drive for ages. The computer went kaput, so you're getting a bunch of stuff I swore I'd never publish, as it had no redeeming qualities. That said, I don't want to lose it, and I do enjoy it, so I hope you do, too!
> 
> Subtextual Remus/Sirius if you squint or habitually wear Wolfstar goggles. They're not even in this, and they're there. How is that? I don't know.

**Second Year/Fourth Year**

Miranda Granger watched her daughter read, watched her eyes scan the pages and flip them as quickly as her eyes reached the bottom of the page. This continual process was nothing new, of course. However, it was only in the last year that Hermione had begun to read an ever-growing collection of heavy tomes without text. Thick books, heavy scrolls, loosely compiled parchments, all without text. They were totally blank. 

Well, that was not entirely true. Hermione swore there was text, and if Miranda or Matthew asked, she was more than happy to read it aloud to them, though they understood very little of its context. Miranda had learned so much about this culture she herself would never belong to, through her daughter’s eyes, though words she heard but would never see. 

They had always been proud of Hermione. She was kind, and took no nonsense from anyone. She worked hard and focused, but she had a sense of justice and equality. After dental and medical school, Miranda had seen too many gunners to let her own child go down that path, even slightly. Not only were they generally giant pricks, gunners as a rule tended to have a lot of insecurity and did things to build themselves up while tearing others down, like tearing pages out of textbooks and screwing with patient care, in some of the more horrible cases Miranda had seen. 

She did not want her daughter to live in the shadows, or be so afraid of failure that she was afraid to try. But try Hermione did. With everything she was, she had bravely thrown herself into this alien society. 

And now, for the second time, she and Matt were escorting Hermione to the train. They had to wear special bands to get onto the platforms, but even this was expected procedure, coming along with Hermione’s book list as a matter of course. Hermione had a banal book jacket over what Miranda knew to be a fourth-year textbook from her school. Supplemental reading, she had grinned. And now, now she simply walked at a wall with a book in her hand, and was gone. 

It still startled her parents, and they, half-fearing bodily injury and half-anticipating making the news for walking into a wall at King’s Cross, followed. There was a swoop in their bellies and a tingling in their blood, as they found themselves entering a world so different it was almost like they had gone back in time. Matt put his hand on her shoulder as if to assure himself that they were together in this vastly changed reality. 

Miranda never got over the sight of seeing a whole subculture right before her eyes, seeing a whole subset of people who had lived and worked beside her without her notice, only to later consume at least 33.57% of her brain, being that this subculture sought to bring her precious and wonderful Hermione Jane into their fold. It was only natural that she would spend time thinking about the influences over her child. 

Someone bumped into her, and Miranda watched their eyes go wide as they first began to apologize, and then snapped their mouths shut, and walked away quickly with their mouth in a grim line, saying nothing more as she glanced at her wrist. As the woman walked away, she cast a spell liberally over herself to the point that Miranda could smell flowers, even feet away.   

Hermione’s eyes were guarded, from where she stood next to her father. “Do not.” She suggested, “Let it get to you.”

Miranda’s heart broke at this advice, understanding it at once as advice Matt had given her to deal with schoolyard bullies, who were small-minded and petty. Her baby, she had surmised by the letters and what they did not say, faced unspeakable prejudice. It killed Miranda that she could do nothing for Hermione, that she was named as the cause of Hermione’s oppression in some way. It wasn’t logical, but it was the guilt that came hand in hand with a mother’s love. 

Miranda knew what she had to do. She smiled brightly, and glanced at her non-magical watch. “We’re a bit early. Let’s find a bench, shall we?”

“Good idea!” Matt agreed, pushing the cart, fury and fear surpassed under the cheer. He was of half a mind to remove Hermione from this school and find her magical tutors so that she could be at home, amid people who loved her in her totality. 

For a while, when letters had come via owl that were increasingly depressed and isolated, Miranda had begun doing what little research she could to explore Hermione’s alternatives. It was a reactionary obsession, so primal it was totally unignorable. Her child was in pain and suffering. To do everything she could to stop it was her only goal. Naturally, she’d written McGonagall on several occasions. What did people think, that just because her daughter had entered a society that was closed to her that Miranda had ceased to be a mother? The very idea was laughable. 

With McGonagall’s regular updates, Miranda had forced herself to relax. Her daughter’s letters had slowly changed this position, and helped her to stand down. Hermione had slowly found her feet, after Halloween, and had been fast friends with Harry and Ron since then. Her letters weren’t totally about them, of course. Miranda was glad to know that she did have other friends in other houses, such as a casual friendship with Susan Bones. 

She also was secretly very fond of the Weasley twins. Miranda remembered one letter that had come home first year, sometime after just after Easter. It had read, in part: _Yesterday, when I was studying, and Harry and Ron were outside playing pickup quidditch, Fred and George taught me a few third year spells they’re learning. In return, I told them about Charlie Chaplin. They’re very interested in comedy. I think Fred would like Fry and Laurie…_

Hermione’s letters were slowly filled, not only of schoolwork and her cultural observations, but of experiences. _Today, Harry won a common room marble championship. Ron still bests us all at chess,_ or, _Yesterday, Parvati said my hair wouldn’t be so horrible if I didn’t brush it. I made a great show of brushing it when it was wet after my bath. She nearly fainted!_

Miranda was torn from her thoughts as they settled onto a bench that gave them a good view of the entrance to the platform. She allowed herself to people watch, her favorite hobby. It had gotten her through dental school, and even now drove away the lingering pain and trauma of her work with MSF and in the Army.

 She saw whom she suspected was Draco Malfoy. He bullied Hermione, that much she knew, even if Hermione had not said as much. She saw his perfectly sleek mother totally ignoring her twelve year old in favor of socializing with yet another finely turned out wizarding woman. She didn’t seem evil, just an absentee mother. 

The father was ice cold. His single glance made Miranda’s skin crawl. He had the eyes of a rapist, the eyes of a murderer, who lived to watch his victims die slowly in agony. She had met men like him, killed men like him, in her time. The Grangers, after all, had met in Her Majesty’s Service. Just because she was a doctor didn’t mean she hadn’t once also been something else. 

If that Mr. Malfoy ever took one towards Hermione, Miranda would disarticulate him, slowly, and without anesthetic, moving so slowly that his magic would begin to heal him just before she made a deeper, longer, firmer, slice into his body, moving incrementally over his skin, making scars of scars of scars, just as his child had done to hers. 

Such was motherhood. Fondly, she let her eyes drift over her daughter, her back effortlessly straight as she held a book in front of her face. In the next second, a great wave of people entered onto the platform. They all had red-hair, and there was a plethora of them, each of them, down to the youngest girl, all had what Miranda knew to be Hogwarts’ Standard Trunks. 

Gently, Miranda nudged Hermione. “Hermione, there’s your friends, the We—”

“Mum!” Hermione hissed, raising her book to cover a blush rising on her face. “Shh!” 

Well. This was interesting. Very interesting, indeed. Sharing a knowing look with Matt, they mentally began to cross-check their lists. Not, of course, that Miranda had to do much work. Hermione was not very secretly staring over the top of her book at two young men whom Miranda noticed just as they were shoving their trunks into their pockets. 

She watched keenly, her eyes sharp. The whole group of them was laughing, joking, teasing, even as their poor mother tried her best to keep them in line. Their interactions looked like everything their whole family dynamic could never be, and she could understand why Hermione, with her passion for sociology as a way to relate to others, would be fascinated. 

Miranda was also fascinated. She had once asked Hermione to describe her friends. Where possible, she had enclosed moving photographs. She’d added, _I didn’t ask Fred and George. They’re twins, as you know, but they look quite different beyond the superficial commonalities. People make jokes about not being able to tell them apart, but it’s really quite obvious._

She watched as one young man, one of the twins, she couldn’t tell which one, scanned the platform. Miranda thought the fact that they were totally identical in her own mind to be rather telling, even if she would never give voice to such thoughts. Matt had read the same letter, and the look he shot her over Hermione’s head said quite a lot. 

Up went Hermione’s book, but that was enough of a clarion call, if, as Miranda expected, said young man was looking for a bookworm with a riot of hair and good posture. Clearly, he was seeking out just that witch, and he was rather obvious about it. 

Miranda did not let herself smile. Matt looked bemused. 

Hermione didn’t see the young man or her parent’s silent communication, so absorbed was she in her book, though Miranda knew she must have heard just faintly above the din, the twin say something to the other one, who rolled his eyes and said something in a much louder tone to the two younger children who hastened to follow after their brother, already striding down the platform. 

“Ron, Ginny!” The other twin called out, halting their steps, “Mum needs your help!” 

The looks on their faces were easily deciphered. Miranda didn’t need to have a crystal ball to know that this brother was playing wingman, or something like it, because Mrs. Weasley looked around in the way that all mothers did when they heard their child calling their name. She hadn’t asked for their help.

Miranda kept her gaze light, though out of the corner of her eye she saw Hermione freeze just slightly, before exhaling intentionally and letting her eyes fall back on the page. Matt’s expression, when Miranda looked to him, looked faintly amused. Miranda reminded him in a single blink that they needed to watch this play out, not interject themselves into a conversation. Matt’s sense of humor was a force to be reckoned with, but when Bunny Girl was slowly taking developmentally appropriate steps toward socialization, they needed to do their part and pretend as though they were part of the bench. 

By the time they agreed on this plan of action, said young man was within speaking distance of their bench. He pasted on a look of surprise, as though Hermione hadn’t been within his sight since the moment he’d arrived on the platform. Contriving to act as though he had only just seen her hardly fooled Matt or Miranda. 

The wizard waved to them jauntily. Miranda put money on the identity of the young man being Fred Weasley, elder of the two twins, the more impulsive, jocular, take-charge one of the two young men. This clearly, for all his shyness, showed a level of directness and self-awareness that spoke to a maturity beyond his years and a willingness to act. 

They returned the greeting in a similar fashion. 

Finally, he spoke, Hermione clearly watching everything behind her book, but unmoving. “Oh, hey, ’Mione.” 

She didn’t even put her book down before she was speaking, though she did close it and place her bookmark back into the pages as she replied, “Hello, Fred.”

“Actually, I’m George.” He winked at Matt and her, and Miranda appreciated the help, not that it wasn’t patently obvious. The idea that he involved them in the conversation was rather sweet. He didn’t want anyone to be left out. Miranda could see why Hermione clearly liked him. He’d come, clearly, to pull her into the fold. 

Hermione slid her book into her shoulder bag, and frowned. “Sure you are, Fred.”

“Only joking, I…” He stood there, flummoxed, all teasing gone from his face, “How did you know?”

The whistle blew for the first time, obscuring something else he said. 

Ignoring his question, Hermione in turn embraced both her parents, accepted their wishes for a good term, promised to write, and walked toward the train, leaving one Fred Weasley behind. 

Miranda would have laughed at his expression, except Fred spluttered gently and asked her, “Can you tell?”

“Regrettably, no.” Miranda replied. 

“She didn’t even really look—” He broke off. “How can she possibly—”

Finally, Matt took pity on the poor boy, and suggested, “Why don’t you ask her on the train?” 

The whistle sounded anew, shrilly and loud, and Mrs. Weasley, called out, “George, you’re going to miss the train!”

Miranda watched look a cross Hermione’s face. As she boarded the train, she had a gentle word with Mrs. Weasley who was standing by the grab rail. Mrs. Weasley called out over the clatter, “Sorry, Fred! Come on, then!” 

Miranda made sure all parties involved were unable to see her, before she gave into the urge she had been surpassing. With a look of unadulterated glee, she stomped her feet and flailed her arms at Matt. “Did you see that? Did you? Oh my God, Matt!”

Miranda was over the moon. 

Even though she could not follow her daughter into this world, she realized something profound as she had looked benignly upon Fred Weasley and the seen the glances her daughter and Fred been getting from their siblings and friends around them.  

“I think you’re awfully excited over a tiny crush on her best friend’s older brother.” Matt teased as they headed for the car park. “It’s likely to fizzle and become an awkward teenage memory.”

Miranda didn’t explain. Matt’s words, and the likely outcome, were completely and totally what made her so happy. It was entirely the point. Hermione was exploring the world, making friends, making memories, doing things that she would laugh about decades later, in the company of others who had been there with her. 

Hermione had found her tribe.

* * *

**Third Year/Fifth Year**

Miranda was alone to see Hermione off this year. Matt had been called early this morning to repair a broken tooth, and he hadn’t been back in time to leave with them. This was good, in Miranda’s estimation, because she wanted to have one final conversation with Hermione as they walked through King’s Cross. 

“So…” Miranda began as they walked along, amongst the mundane crowds that had no idea what was going on just under their noses, “Tell me more about the project you’re working on with Fred.”

“Well, it’s actually George and Fred.” Hermione had explained long ago that they were planning on launching their own product development company, which Miranda understood to be a joke and novelty store. It seemed to suit what she knew of the twins, both through small visits, and countless letters. “But anyway…” 

Hermione explained that Fred often wrote formulas and theory down, and Hermione cross-checked it against existing theories and provided insight. They had rather lively and witty debates that flew faster between them at a pace faster than any owl could maintain. They sent letters in batches now. The house had seemed so quiet during the Weasley Trip to Egypt. She was going on about somebody named Gamp, when Hermione rattled to a stop and asked, “What’s going on, Mum?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Miranda replied, glad to have her daughter exactly where she wanted her for this conversation in a literal and figurative sense, “I was thinking that if you wanted to have friends round one of these term breaks, that you might consider extending an invitation to Fre—er, the twins.”

Clearly, Hermione caught her misstep easily. It wasn’t a mistake, after all. Miranda had meant to say that, though Hermione wasn’t to know it.  Hermione’s expression was slightly critical. She did not want her mother’s teasing. She had logically explained their friendship. Miranda had heard it all, and smiled back unrepentantly. 

“I don’t think his parents will let that happen.” Hermione’s expression was tense, pinched, pensive. “There’s a lot going on that I can’t explain. I would if I could articulate it.” 

Miranda wasn’t stupid. She knew of the political situation. She knew of the brewing war. Hermione didn’t know that she knew, though, and she was working so hard to keep her veteran parents safe. Miranda merely smiled blandly, as though she understood it to be a cultural issue, “Well, they can hardly object to a family dinner. Why don’t you let me arrange something with Mrs. Weasley.” 

Hermione hesitated. “I…” She sighed, seeing Platform Nine ahead of them. “Fine. But I swear, Mum, I will hex you if you give into your delusions in front of Molly. A more marriage minded woman you’ll never meet, though I do love her.” 

Though she had obtained Hermione’s consent, Miranda knew she had to wait until the platform cleared to approach a very occupied Mrs. Weasley. Miranda was glad of this, because didn’t want to miss this year’s display of awkward flirting, which she knew quite well to expect. 

Hermione sat with her book, some blank tome that she told Miranda was about the Goblin Wars. She was actually engrossed in her book when the Weasley family clattered onto the platform minus Ron and Harry. Hermione looked up for a brief second, satisfied herself that all was  normal in their perpetual lateness, and turned back to her book. 

As if by Miranda’s wishing and hoping, Fred tried to slip away unnoticed by the throng around him. He had no such luck. Miranda pretended, like any good mother, not to see or hear the good-natured teasing he endured before moving through the crowds to approach their bench. Miranda thought Ron’s reaction quite priceless. He looked rather ill, but resigned. Fred, Miranda assumed, had enduring quite a lot of teasing this summer. 

He greeted Miranda with a shy smile, and they shared a minute or two of chit-chat. Yes, her summer was quite nice, yes, she had enjoyed France. Yes, she was quite aware he couldn’t take his eyes off of Hermione. Wait, she’d only thought that last bit. Yes, she thought it was cute.

Hermione turned the page of her book, leading Fred to step behind her and ask, “What are you reading?”

“Prtichard’s discussion of the Goblin Rebellion of 1752.” Hermione replied, her eyes never leaving the page, “It’s really quite fascinating.”

“Right, especially the part about how the Goblins ended up throwing their lot in with werewolves, and Gore was elected Minister for Magic because of it. I think that bit’s on pages 679 to 743.” Fred agreed, “If you want to read ahead and check it.” 

Miranda swallowed a laugh. They both knew how this ended, so it wasn’t as if he was being cruel and spoiling the ending. And yet, there was a joke there, slightly at Hermione’s expense, but within boundaries, Miranda thought. After all, Hermione got her back up like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs if anyone so much as suggested that plodding through a book word for word wasn’t the only way to study. 

He said this with an impish grin, as though he was anticipating Hermione’s fond huff. “I’m done taking book recommendations for you, if you’re just to take my fun and shut it down. You have yet to internalize the point that context is as critical as facts.”

“I didn’t recommend any such book.” He rocked back on his heels, as she pushed to her feet, the bench a barrier between them. “You must be thinking of Forge.” He shrugged, “And anyway, the point of knowledge is to apply it.”

“You can’t apply it logically unless you have a deeply grounded context in which to develop—” Hermione began, “This argument is so much more efficient on paper. All I am trying to say is that you have to know what other theorists say so that you can develop your own theories.”

“To a point, yes.” Fred agreed, “But if you get caught up in the law of this, or the theorem of that,  you start to lose your own voice and your own interpretation of facts.”

“You’re not going to know if something is going to work unless you have a firm grounding in theory and history and the applicable discipline.” Hermione asserted, “You can’t design an experiment unless you have a literature review, after all.” 

“You come up with the experiment and then you conduct the review.” Fred returned. “There is some interpretation.”

“Yes, but you conceptualize an experiment on the basis of preexisting knowledge.” Hermione returned, “And then you write the review, and edit your conceptualization and probable outcomes as you go along.”

“Or you could just steal potions ingredients, and conduct clandestine experiments in the girl’s loo.” Fred arched an eyebrow. “Take a risk, live a little.”

Miranda returned Mrs. Weasley’s wave, adopting a similar knowing expression. Miranda had just won a disagreement with Matt. He’d sworn that Hermione’s potions accident had been in lab sections. Miranda had known that there had to be more to it than that, but Matt was forever unable to even think Hermione capable of trickery or deceit. Miranda knew better. Hermione would lie easily and well to safeguard the truth. 

“The research process guides us.” Hermione returned, folding her arms on her middle, “And should be respected as the foundation of discovery. Only the most dire of circumstances should override this process.”

“All I’m saying is that you can’t pay attention to the syntax of the thing, sometimes—”

And then, before Fred could continue, there was a young man saddling up to Fred, saying in his best announcer’s voice, “And here, ladies and gentleman, we have a rare sighting of Weasley and Granger arguing outside of the library, or more recently, the fourth floor broom cupboard—”

“Funny.” Hermione put her book in her backpack, and slung it over her shoulder, “I have to go help the Prefects. I said I would. I should have been there ages ago. Mum, meet Lee Jordan.”

Miranda greeted him, doing her level best not to react to his comments. She knew the story, of course. It wasn’t like Hermione kept secrets, well, kept secrets that weren’t about life and death battles and systemic oppression. At least they could still talk about boys, a fact which not many mothers with teenage daughters could claim. She would take talking about boys any day, really. 

“Mrs. Granger, lovely to meet you.” Lee shifted, “The broom closet thing, well that’s only because of Peeves. He sounds an alarm when they’re seen together. Your daughter is rather legendary.”

Miranda just bet she was something of a legend on several fronts. Where there was smoke there was fire, after all, and the press wouldn’t slaughter her if she wasn’t a force to be reckoned with, even in the classroom. Remus and Sirius were in frequent contact about Hermione’s well-being. 

Hermione’s grin was the mirror image of her mother’s, Miranda was happy to note. She blinked, a prim expression that was very nearly sly settling on her face, “You have to know the rules to break them most artfully.”

“And Granger scores the final goal!” Lee declared, drawing the attention of the people bustling around them, “Game, set, match, Hermione!” 

“You’re mixing up your metaphors again.” Fred chided, laughter in his voice, “Since when do you play tennis?”

“Since I met a muggle girl this summer.” He shrugged, “I’m very good at tennis now.”

Hermione snorted, “You charmed your racket, right?”

Lee’s smile was telling. “Well, and her.” 

Miranda laughed. If only Matt had had magic when they had taken up rowing. Then again, she had been utterly charmed by his lack of skill, and she rather suspected that this muggle young lady had seen right through Lee, even if he did have a boost. 

“Bye, Mum!” Hermione gave her mother one last hug, and ran toward the train, where Ginny and another girl were gesturing inside a compartment, mouthing to the window something about Prefects. 

As she ran off, Lee smiled. “That’s what counts, isn’t it, Freddie?”

“You’ve lost your mind.” Fred replied, with the roll of his eyes, “Have a good term, Dr. Granger. Thanks for all the muggle records.” 

“He’s a total Elton John fan!” Lee informed her, “And Michael Jackson!” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Miranda replied, doing everything she could possibly do not to laugh at the daggers Fred was shooting Lee. “Fred, do me a favor, would you, and let your Mum know I’d like a chat?”

Lee bit back a smile, and when Fred replied cautiously that he would tell her when they got on the train, took charge and insisted, “Well, there’s no time like the present, is there? Bye, Dr. Granger!” 

“Bye, Lee!” Miranda replied, “Have a good term, boys! Remember to clean your teeth and check the broom closets for poltergeists before picking one!” 

Fred tripped as he walked away, and Lee howled with laughter. 

A Granger always had the last word. 

Naturally, she didn’t need to say a word to Molly Weasley beyond offering an invitation for a cup of tea. She had much closer access to both Fred and Hermione during the year, and was quite happy to come for a cup of tea and a scone in a muggle cafe nearby and offer her insights, while they planned several meals to take place over the coming months. 

It wasn’t matchmaking. It was, as she would later tell Hermione, parental supervision. They had a right and a duty to do this for Hermione, with Hermione, and they would not abdicate it. Besides, Matt was rather looking forward to telling Mr. Weasley all about computing. They too had a right to friends. 

* * *

**Fourth Year/Sixth Year**

Hermione had forgotten her book. Miranda wove back through the crowd to return it, but pulled Matt to a halt when she realized she was just behind and to the side of the person she wanted to catch quickly, quite hidden by the throngs of students. 

Something told her not to move, and after years of training, she listened to that inclination. They leaned against the wall. Miranda didn’t think she was eavesdropping. Rather, she was merely waiting until a lull in the conversation. It was only polite. 

“Actually, I’m George.” The young man winked at Hermione, as they stood by the wall, their bench having been taken up by a gaggle of first years struggling with their ties, until Hermione had helped them and Ron had made them laugh with stories of their time at the Quidditch World Cup. 

Miranda thought she could almost tell who was who when they were together, mostly because George perpetually bemused by Fred’s attentiveness to Hermione. Additionally, she only had to look where Hermione was directing her gaze to find Fred. 

Hermione, unfazed, and tilted her head. “One day…” she began, “I just might believe you, Fred, and then what will you do? I should hope you have a plan, here.” 

Miranda heard the smile in his voice, “I’ve always got a plan. Can’t tell you what it is, yet.”

Miranda just be did. She also bet that Hermione often turned that plan inside out and upside down. 

Hermione gripped shoulder bag. Primly, she looked up at him, “Okay. Should I go over there to _Fred_ and tell him I would be very happy to go to the Yule Ball with him? You know once I give my word, I wouldn’t break it, and he did ask in a owl.” 

“Hermione—” Fred hastened, totally flummoxed. Miranda didn’t know if it was because Hermione had agreed to go out with him to the Ball, or because she was talking about taking George. “I was only joking!”

“Well, it’s not funny! You’re not interchangeable carbon copies, you know, and I don’t see what’s so funny about the yearly, ‘Let’s see if ’Mione can tell the difference.’ test. It’s demeaning, not only to you, and George, but also to me. Like I’m so stupid I couldn’t even—”

Matt looked to her, _Should I go bust it up?_

Miranda shook her head. They needed to figure this out on their own. 

“Hermione…” Fred’s voice dropped. “The whole school, literally, is within earshot and listening.”

Even Matt winced at that one. Miranda had no such sympathy. Fred had brought the hurricane upon himself. 

“I don’t care!” She let her voice rise above the din. Miranda felt Matt brace himself for the gale force winds that were coming, as though he couldn’t believe Hermione was annoyed, and at Fred, no less. “I don’t care! Why should I care if the whole school knows?” She took a look around the suddenly still platform, “Why should I care if they hear the whole argument? It certainly saves time on the gossip rounds!”  

Hermione inhaled, calling out, “Hey, Angelina? Are you hearing this?”

“Yes!” She called back, clearly in unity with her friend, “Loud and clear, ta!”

“Fan-bloody-tastic.” He muttered, “You and George annoyed at me…”

“Oh, Fred.” Hermione returned, her tone full of warning, “If only it were as easy as that. I’m not annoyed. I’m hurt. I asked you to stop that. I asked, and you didn’t. What does that say about us, really?”

“Hermione, I only…”

“It’s not a joke, Fred, unless everyone is in on it.” That pronouncement made, she turned to the train, never seeing her parents. Making an executive decision, Miranda decided to owl the book. 

* * *

**Seventh Year/Fifth Year**

Miranda had quite gotten used to being absurdly early for the train. She rather looked forward to it, like some of her friends looked forward to Boxing Day sales. Hermione, of course, did not realize the trend. Or, rather, if she did, she said nothing of it. The latter was far more likely. 

Miranda was tired, but was shocked into awareness, when a person literally materialized behind the bench, where Hermione was reading. She herself was coming back from a loo run, and stopped short when she saw Fred leaning down over Hermione’s shoulder, and whisper something in her ear. Hermione turned her head to face Fred, and… 

Miranda’s view was obscured by a group of rampaging third years. Damn. When she next saw her daughter, she had a slight blush on her cheeks, but had her nose back in her book. It was too bad that Miranda wasn’t a betting woman. She wove through the crowds, only to bump into Ginny, who grinned and said, “Hey, Dr. Granger! Thanks for the muggle novels. They’re going to be a hit in the dorm.” 

Miranda replied, as the crowd swelled around them with the bulk of the travelers arriving presently, “Just don’t let Hermione get them first. You might have trouble getting them back before she finishes the whole series.” 

“I think…” Ginny began, “That Hermione is going to be pretty busy this year. She’s already talking about her advocacy work.”

“You’ll make sure she has some fun, won’t you?” Miranda pressed, “I want you girls to have a good year.”

Ginny promised she would, with a keen light in her eyes, and hastened off to join her friends. Miranda, as was her custom, wandered back to the bench, and found the normally chatty young duo to be strangely quiet. 

If anything, this confirmed her suspicions. Assuming nothing, Miranda looked between the two of them, and asked, “Good book, Hermione?”

“Well, why shouldn’t it be?” Hermione hastened, “It’s a very interesting book about the gender-integration of Hogwarts. I’ve already found four factual errors in this chapter alone. I’m planning to write the publisher with my corrections when I finish.”

Miranda realized that there was a notebook and pen in Hermione’s lap. Her daughter was growing, but even she drew the line at defacing literature. “What led you to this revelation?”

“What else?” Hermione asked, her fingers gripping the pen, _“Hogwarts: A History_.”

“Hermione!” Fred’s eyes grew wide, “That’s like your Bible. You’ve never said a word against it!” 

“As I have said a million times, Fred, my duty is to the truth and to justice. The idea that people would intentionally publish books with glaring errors is beyond me, so I am inclined to be helpful and state the obvious.” Hermione grinned, and looked over her shoulder again at Fred. 

“Is that what you call it?” Fred teased, “Think of the poor little clerk that will read your letter and dissolve into a puddle of tears and wailing. Whatever will they do?”

“Stating the truth is only logical.” She closed her book, “Even if it is repetitious and obvious.” 

Miranda loved their banter.

She had a very good idea of what they were discussing indirectly, and offered, “Ebbinghaus suggests that information becomes memory most effectively by something called spaced repetition, that is repeating a question, or say, a phrase,”

Here Miranda tested her assumptions, and was rewarded quite nicely with dual telling glances. “…at regular intervals over a period of time increases retention and recall. A recent study suggested that people who commit to learning in this way are 67% more likely to commit that something to memory, to most fully understand it and explore it, and to apply it in their lives.” 

“Interesting…” Fred murmured. Miranda could see the fireworks displays and adorably absurd public displays of affection taking on new meaning in his mind. After all, it was backed by science. Hermione would put a firm stop to it, surely, if she wanted to do so. Something told Miranda that Hermione might secretly enjoy it. 

Hermione closed her notebook, and looked at her mother, “I’d like to see this study.”

“I’ll owl it.” Miranda promised. It was, in fact, a real meta-analysis, but of course it wasn’t discussing love between two teenagers. Still, research was meant to be tested and applied, and she was hardly the first person to do it with such a noble purpose. 

The train whistle blew for the first time, signaling that students had a few moments to get their things and get on board. Hermione hugged her, and wished her an enjoyable time at the upcoming conference in Istanbul. 

Miranda hugged her tightly back. George just happened to be walking by them as he made his way to the train, and stopped for a short moment to converse. He slanted a look at his brother. Having a sister of her own, Miranda knew well this sort of conversation. As they all laughed and joked, the whistle blew again. 

As Hermione and Fred hurried off, George promised, “I’ll keep them in line.” 

“I think they’ve got themselves handled, don’t you?” Miranda trusted her daughter, and her daughter clearly trusted and loved Fred. That was all she needed to know. She had raised a confident young woman who knew how to articulate herself. “Hermione’s a big girl.”

“Actually, I was more talking about Fred.” He assured her, “I still don’t think Fred knows what’s hit him. It’s only been years. Then again, everyone has always said I’m the clever twin.”

“Well, far be it from me to disagree with everyone.” She smiled, “Have a great year, George.” 

“You know, you’re the only person who has optimism for school anymore.” He sighed, “It’s refreshing.” The train let out a chuff, and George ran, “See you at Easter, Dr. Granger!”

For the first time in a long while, Miranda felt a genuine optimism and hope for the future. 

* * *

**Hermione’s Sixth Year**

 Miranda embraced her daughter desperately, aware of the rising war and Hermione’s role in it. “You take care of yourself.” She ordered, “You fight like hell, do you understand me? You fight like hell, and you let them steal nothing from you.” 

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. “Remus and Sirius were wrong to bring you into this. You’re not going to be safe, even in Australia, unless I take every trace of your—”

“We’re not going until there’s no other choice.” Miranda insisted, not going over the whole thing again. Remus and Sirius had been correct to tell them everything. They had a chance now, to plan for the worst case scenario, and to make evacuation plans. “If, Hermione, if.” 

Hermione nodded, though they both knew the war was escalating, and clutched her cat carrier. Crooks yowled piteously. Miranda busied herself with shushing him, and offering a cat treat through the bars as Hermione collected herself. She had spent only a very few days with her daughter, and she was reluctant to let her go. 

She did not know when she would see her daughter again. Even now, Sirius told her to be at the ready for evacuation at any moment. She knew that keeping her memories was the only way she would survive. Hermione did not understand, though she might one day, that the ability to remember the war was the only thing that told you had survived on days you felt like you couldn’t go. War was war. 

Miranda was startled out of her musings and her melancholy by sound of a pop that was rather like a bubble bursting in her ear. Hermione smothered a smile as she spoke to the man who had appeared next to her, “Fred! You did that just to show off!” 

“Actually—” He sniffed, clearly mocking his estranged brother, Percy. “I am merely demonstrating to Dr. Granger that a pop across the room is as easy as a portkey to Sirius’s compound in Australia.” He looked down at Hermione, making much of their height difference, “As the creator of very complex portrays designed for just such travel, I, Miss Granger, am an expert.” 

“You’re a show-off and a flirt.” Hermione grinned. 

Miranda knew that Hermione was deflecting the sudden onslaught of fondness for Fred, just as she was doing inside her own heart. He really was dear, and he seemed to be the only person could make Hermione smile with such abandon these days. Miranda praised him for it, and was glad that he had seen them. 

“You’re the flirt.” Fred replied, “And in front of the firsties, too! I’m scandalized.” He looked over at the young children boarding the train. Miranda knew that security on the platform was no joke. There were aurors everywhere.  

Ron came bustling over, and greeted both women, adding, “Hermione, I’m not going to the meeting alone. Come on.” He took the cat basket from her, calling back, “You can argue with Fred later. Preferably when I’m not around.”

Hermione informed her mother, “Apparently I live to torture him.” 

Fred shrugged, “He’s used to it.” 

Hermione hesitated, and Miranda only had one thing to say. She wished that Matt was allowed to come, but they were never, never to go in the wizarding world together. Being together made them easier to capture in public. They were only worth capture and torture as a unit. “Stay safe. Daddy and I are always here, and there’s a beach with your name on it.”

“When this is over.” Hermione nodded, as though she was planning a holiday for next summer, not for when the war was over. Miranda had this horrible feeling that she wouldn’t see Hermione for some time. She knew it in her soul. 

She did what mothers the world over were all called to do at one point or another in their lives. They looked at their daughters, knew they were staring at a woman, wise beyond her years, but totally unready, and smiled as though her heart wasn’t breaking, “Go.”

Hermione went. When she was out of earshot, Fred spoke earnestly, “I promise you, no matter what, she will come to you. She will come back.”

“No.” Miranda insisted, holding his gaze with a fiery intensity, “You both will. You haven’t a choice.” 

“I can’t promise you that, Miranda.” Fred replied, “Harry, Ron, and Hermione have to survive. They have to be the ones to win this, and I will do everything to make sure that happens. I can’t tell you why, only that it’s true. I will happily die—”

“Don’t demean what you have by telling me you’d die for her. That’s meaningless tripe.” Miranda thought of friends lost in war, thought of the people she’d tried to help in MSF. She thought of all the people that she had watched die, and spoke a lesson born out of that hardship and that pain. “You live for the people you love, experience life to the fullest no matter the risks. You live through the tears, you don’t die with a smile.”

“Miranda…” The whistle blew behind them, and Ron and Harry and Ginny were all staring out the window at their conversation. Fred took a look over his shoulder as the train emitted a great puff of steam, “I don’t know how this war will end, but I promise you, at the end, that you will know I have done everything I could to keep my word and be on this platform.” 

When the train pulled away, leaving Fred by her side, Miranda had never felt so alone. 

Miranda suspected Fred felt the same way. 

* * *

**Hermione’s Eighth Year…**

Hermione sat with her mother, too thin, too worn, too drawn. The bench was the same, but everything was different. Her eyes were haunted, and her smile was filled with grace. The expression was so rare that Miranda knew it came from the angels. The child who was staring stepped away, and the smile went along with it. 

Miranda missed it. 

They were back in London, sitting on the wizarding platform, delaying this parting. Miranda took Hermione’s brittle, scarred, hand, and prayed that she wouldn’t flinch and pull away. She only flinched, though, which was progress, and then gripped her mother’s hand tightly. “You don’t have to go, Hermione.” 

“I owe it to the people who will never have the chance.” Hermione repeated herself, doing what was right in heart though a large part of her wanted to stay in London, “These aren’t just my NEWTs. They’re theirs, too.” 

Hermione held herself steady as kids wandering past stared openly. She was alone. Harry and Ron across London and deep underground, and she had eschewed Ginny and Luna and Neville’s company. Miranda did not know what to say about anyone else. She kept praying things were different, but things were as they were, and wishes didn’t change things. 

If only they did… 

Oh, why couldn’t he be here? Miranda did the only thing she could to again delay the separation that no one wanted to take place, “I’ll expect you home for Saturday tea.”

Hermione nodded absentmindedly. She was looking around the platform, in the slow, steady, sweeps of a trained warrior. Miranda’s heart broke. “You’ve got to get going, Hermione.” 

Sundays, for now, belonged to Molly. They’d come to an accord. Molly got Christmas dinner. Miranda got Easter dinner. Alternate years, they swapped. 

Hermione hesitated. Miranda would have done anything to stop time, to slow it. The whistle blew, signaling that the train would depart in a mere few moments. Hermione stood, picked up Crooks’s basket as she had so many times before, and stepped back.  

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda saw a flash of flinging themselves bodily through the platform’s barrier, hasty and hurried in the moments. She prayed, her body dizzy with relief. Hermione whirled about, a single question on her lips, knowing what the expression of hope on her mother’s face might mean, must mean. It was a mere name, “Fred?”

“Don’t tell me you were expecting George. I’ll leave and go get him, shall I?” A voice spoke from behind them. Hermione turned so fast she nearly tripped. Her voice came out as a squeak, when her eyes grew wide and filled with tears.

“Oi!” Ginny’s voice called out an open window, “Watching you two is like watching paint dry! I did not miss your clandestine wartime we—”

“Ginny!” Neville called out, from a window down the carriage, “Now is not the time!”

 “Only joking.”  Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, as Fred spoke, “Taking the train up to Hogsmeade to open the shop there, settle into the flat. You?”

“My NEWTs, you know.” Hermione gripped the cat basket with her left hand. “Minerva’s letting you take the train?”

“You know she loves me.” Fred grinned, “Wants to marry me, see, and do fabulously wicked things to my body.”

Hermione laughed as tears pricked. “Well, I do hope you’ll be blissfully and orgasmically happy together.” 

“Had to break her heart, though.” Fred grinned, “Bigamy’s illegal. You should look into that when you’re Minister for Magic. Probably doesn’t count if your first wife is a goddess.”

“Top of the list.” Hermione affirmed, rolling her eyes fondly, “Right after you tell me why you didn’t say you were coming.”

“I was going to surprise you, you know, station in Hogsmeade.” Fred replied, “But then I remembered that I promised Miranda I’d be here to get on the train. So then I had to get to London, and get through security, and avoid my mother, and devise a suitable entrance.” 

“Oh, Mum…” Hermione’s eyes filled again, and she wrapped her arms tightly about her in a hug. Miranda treasured it beyond measure, as she did Hermione’s whispered, “Thank you.”

Miranda laughed and waved as they ran to catch up with Neville, who had come to the door, and was hanging half out to provide Hermione and then Fred a hand onto the train. 

After they left, Miranda sat on the bench that had seen so much uncertainty, so much joy, so much pain, so much life. She had watched from the sidelines here, watched as her little girl had become a woman, found her niche in the world, built friendships, chosen love and life and hope in a time of great chaos and darkness, and fought to save the world she inhabited. From this bench, Miranda had watched the wizarding world fall into war and rise anew. 

She wondered what other stories this bench could tell. She figured there were quite a few, some that Hermione or even Fred might hold dear in their own hearts. She knew full well, despite what Hermione said, that Fred had confessed his love here. After all, one Easter break she had noticed him…

Quickly, she remembered that murky long-ago, forgotten day, and walked around the back of the bench. She had totally forgotten about seeing him back here, because she’d thought him to be tying his brogues. They had been late to catch a train, and Matt had been surly with ManFlu, and a million things had taken precedence in her mind. 

Now, though, something prodded her to go look. She crouched down, and saw three lines carved into the wood of the bench. Miranda laughed when she made sense of the neat carving, the first two dates and the initials clearly having been made at one point, and the rest at another. With laugher in her heart, and tears in her eyes, Miranda wondered how on earth Fred had pulled off that proposal in the middle of war, when she knew their meetings had been nearly nonexistent? 

Well, nearly was the operative word, she supposed, for their had been, as Ginny had noted, a clandestine wedding, simply because two wanted to live each moment to the fullest and leave nothing for regrets or what might have beens. 

Miranda wiped her eyes. Every couple had their secrets. And she knew the bench would never tell. Fondly, she ran her fingers over the wooden armrest, and whispered, “Thank you.” 

In a world of madness, this bench had been a place of such normalcy and hope. At least these words she could read. 

 

_**1993 + 1995 + 1998 = ∞** _

_**HG+FW** _

_**Marry Me?** _

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a bunch of stuff like this, so I may post more once I go through rescuing my files.


End file.
